looking through me

Tag: expectations

April 4, 2015

good friday (and saturday)

Good Friday. Not the first one—not for the disciples—nothing good about it.

Had I been with them, how long would I have stayed in the garden before I ran? How far would I have fled? Would I have trembled in the eerie midday darkness and watched my Hope die on that tree? Or would I have cowered far away? Maybe I would have needed to watch. Or maybe I would have needed deniability as I tried to fit the shattered pieces of the past three years into some semblance of sense.

And what about Saturday? Were the eleven back together by then? Mourning? Panicking? Planning? Arguing? Praying? Or maybe they were silent. Stunned. Confused. Angry. Afraid. These were the ones who didn’t have the faith to cast a demon out of a boy or the discipline to stay awake and keep watch with Jesus or . . . or . . . or . . . the list of failures was long. What would that Saturday when their world failed have been like for them?

Today I endure Friday because Sunday’s coming, because I know the end of the story. But they lived through each agonizing minute devoid of Hope. It would have been a brutal test of faith even if they’d understood everything Jesus had told them, so how much worse was it when they didn’t get it?

I can’t begin to experience how the disciples felt that first Friday and Saturday. I can’t fathom their devastation and fear. The one for whom they’d given up everything to follow was dead and buried. Three years, their expectations, their reputations, their futures: gone in less than a day.

So this Saturday I sit in the waiting. Uncomfortable. Antsy. A little less judgmental of the fleet-footed disciples. Because I know and celebrate what they’ll learn tomorrow: the tomb is empty and Hope is alive!

 

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

4 Comments
March 18, 2015

sick day

It’s Wednesday morning . . . and I’m home. This was not the plan when the alarm went off. It was not the plan as I unsealed the eye glued shut with green gunk. It was not the plan while I got ready for work. Until I looked in the mirror—the kind of looking that involved leaning in close and realizing the extra blur was not the lack of glasses but something more colorful.

Besides the irritating discharge issue, the blood vessels flared red in the so-called whites of my eyes, and the swollen right lid resigned itself to gravity and hung at two-thirds mast.

After scheduling a late morning doctor’s appointment, I fired off a few texts and emails letting work know I may or may not be in today.

Then I waited. And as I did I realized I am unfamiliar with Wednesdays. I have one every week, yes, but not like this. When was the last Wednesday I sat on the couch halfway between the open front door and the open back door and listened to the birds? I mean really listened? Did I even know so many neighborhood birds maintained a steady chorus? There were at least a half dozen tunes being sung at once. It was glorious.

The sun picked off the fog one patch at a time leaving the sky a quilt of muted grays and whites with brief blues appearing.

Back from the doctor’s and one dose of drops in each of my infected eyes, I found myself grateful for a forced pause. It isn’t every week or even month that I am interrupted and reminded how consumed I become by my routine—so nose-in I miss the beauty of the days slipping past me.

It’s Wednesday and I’m home . . . getting to know a day I tend to view more as a task on a list than an opportunity to watch the world with wonder. Thank you, pink eye, this is so much better than what I had planned.

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

2 Comments